


And Never

by BlackMajjicDuchess



Series: Epoch [2]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst, Cousin Incest, Doomed Relationship, F/M, Forbidden Love, Sexual Content, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-11 00:55:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 19,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3309689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackMajjicDuchess/pseuds/BlackMajjicDuchess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A parallel fic to my story "Forever."</p><p>She is content to exist in his shadow, but only for the promise of the light on the other side, and the sun is slowly setting.</p><p>The blinding light and complete darkness are equally terrifying, but shadows are fickle things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It Begins with the Snap of Thunder

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DreamingDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingDragon/gifts).



> Been wanting to write this ever since I finished "Forever," but didn't have the spark or direction to take it, yet. A recent review on my fic reignited my imagination, and I dragged my ass out of bed 3 hours before the work alarm sounded to jot down the beginning. 
> 
> Now there's this. I don't even care if you like it. I love it. I loved writing it. So ignore me if you will. The story happened and that's all that matters. Their story needed to be told, and now it has. 
> 
> Enjoy.

As the legend goes, they were born at precisely the same time during the worst storm to ever rage across the landscape. Lightning rippled up and down the countryside, making relays across the grassy plains, leaving burning trees in its wake. Sheets of rain thick enough to drench a man in seconds came and went in spurts. Walking into a rain spell was akin to a bucket splash in the face. It was the middle of the night, lit with a steady, large half moon that allowed the eye to see everything, but only just.

The legend wasn’t quite true, of course; they were born about an hour apart, but it was close enough that the midwife had one hell of a time. Or so it was said. Touka’s mother had a wild heart; she was wandering, alone, when Touka’s mighty kick to the womb insisted it was time. Her mother managed to get to the edge of camp, screaming bloody murder and threatening bodily harm to whoever came near if they chose not to help her. Wise men stayed far away. Wiser men told even wiser women. One thing led to another, and Touka’s mother was brought into where Tobirama’s mother was already panting and taking deep, gasping breaths. She was more sensible, safely tucked into a warm featherbed and watched over by several of Butsuma’s best men and her husband himself. 

“What the…” Butsuma began as she was dragged in behind two very harassed looking soldiers. 

“One word and I cut your tongue out,” she snarled through a grimace of pain. Her white knuckle grip on the supporting arms tightened even further. The men at her sides hissed and cringed with pain. She panted and shot him an evil glare, sweat dribbling between her eyes. 

Butsuma held his hands up in surrender, eyes flying wide. 

The midwife’s eyes darted between Butsuma’s wife and the new arrival. “Oh, hell,” she grumbled. A loud snap of thunder rattled the walls. She waved her hands impatiently. “Set her down somewhere comfortable and I’ll do what I can.” She heaved an exasperated sigh and turned back to Butsuma’s wife.

The two pregnant women made eye contact, grudging comrades for the night. Half sisters, and not very close. Touka’s mother was a wild thing. Her sister’s demeanor was opposite: cool, composed, conservative. Tobirama’s mother made not a sound beyond the sharp intake of breath and slow, shuddering exhalations. She held her husband’s hand and stayed as strong as he expected. This was not her first child, and would not be her last. She was a warrior, too, with a solid bearing that served her just as well in childbirth as it had on the battlefront. 

Touka’s mother handled it differently. She was feral, enigmatic, and always had been. She didn’t know who Touka’s father was and wasn’t bothered by it. She, too, was a warrior. One who preferred the frontlines. Aggressive but intelligent. Crass, but compassionate. It was no wonder that she and her sister had never gotten along. So when the midwife stepped aside to attend to her sister, she shrieked and shouted and acted as if she was dying. If anyone tried to offer comfort, she stabbed them through the heart with the force of her iron death glare. And when the pain of labor struck her, she unleashed a string of obscenities that made Butsuma blush and mutter prayers.

Either way, they produced the same results. Touka entered the world first, and her mother crowed with triumph, as if it were a race. “I win, you daft cowbag,” she breathed tiredly in her sister’s direction as she yet labored on. 

“She needs a name,” hollered the midwife, back at work with Touka’s aunt. 

“Hadn’t thought about it,” the woman muttered. “What will you name your daughter?” she asked her sister, completely ignoring her trials of the birthing bed. 

“Touka,” she said through gritted teeth. 

“Sounds good enough to me. What’s it mean?”

She hissed in a deep breath, then answered, “Peach Flower.” 

The other mother frowned. “Sounds rather… weak.” Abruptly she grinned like an animal. “It will toughen her up. Touka it is.”

“Hey!” yelped her sister. “That was for my daughter!”

“Yeah but your baby’s late, so I snagged it. Besides, I have a feeling you’re going to be cursed with nothing but boys.”

An hour later, she was, in fact, cursed with another boy. They named him Tobirama.

 


	2. She Falls

Touka was five when she realized she was in love with him. Most boys and girls at such a tender young age either don’t know the difference between boys and girls or know that they hate the other. Touka didn’t know any other girls. She wasn’t aware of any differences. But she _did_ know that Tobirama was special to her, and always would be.

And it was because he saved her life.

It seemed so cliche, she reflected later in life, that something as simple as saving her from death would be enough to make her latch onto him. But, as she would also reflect later, these things seldom ever made any kind of sense. 

It was stupid. She was climbing a tree to get a better view into the enemy lands, pretending to be a Shinobi scout like her cousins. Her mother was making a half hearted attempt to ensure Touka grew up like a 'normal girl.' Late in her life, Touka settled on the decision that it was probably just some insane personal challenge; she _had_ to have known that Touka would never be a member of high class society. She still insisted Touka wear kimonos—that’s what little girls did—and the cumbersome folds of silk were not conducive to the climbing of trees. She managed to climb into the higher branches where she intended, though it cost more effort than it should have. Kimonos were heavy, and the midsummer heat made her lethargic. She was sweating and breathing hard by the time she made it. As she shimmied out onto the branch, she scooted over the folds of her dress. It caught, she toppled forward. Then her soul dove into her gut as she realized she was maybe falling. She panicked, scrambled, and plummeted. Directly into the river.

Touka hadn’t learned to swim yet, another one of those things ladies didn’t do. She shrieked and flailed, but when she opened her mouth to suck in air, water pervaded her lungs instead. And, too, the heavy folds of silk that hampered her tree climbing skills were exponentially worse for swimming. As she flailed, the silk wrapped around her arms and legs and effectively tied her up. She was failing… she knew it deep in her child’s heart. She was Shinobi—no matter what her mother pretended—and every Shinobi child was forced to become a warrior eventually. Touka became one when she fought for her life in the river. Any moment, she’d die as one when the river defeated her. Too many of their warriors lost their lives in their first combat. Why not her too?

And that was when a strong arm wrapped around her middle and squeezed, expelling the water from her lungs. She coughed and sputtered and tried to see, but her damp hair fell in her eyes and blocked her vision. “Don’t move.” It was his first command to her, and she obeyed as quickly then as she had since. Her body immediately went limp. Slowly, calmly, his powerful strokes carried them both to shore. The moment he could stand he dropped her right there and stood over her with his arms crossed. If it weren’t for his white hair, he’d be a spitting image of his father. “What were you thinking?” he chastised. “You can’t go swimming in _that_.” He gestured pointedly at her kimono, heavy and ruined by the river. His eyes blinked rapidly to dispel the water that dripped from his eyelashes. 

She opened her mouth to defend herself, but didn’t know what to say. Her shoulders heaved as she opted for catching her breath instead, looking more like a bedraggled rat than a Senju Shinobi. 

He shook his head as if disappointed in her. She never forgot that either. 

“Thank you,” she mumbled.

“Hm?” He leaned his ear toward her, inviting her to speak up.

“Thank you,” she repeated. “For saving me.”

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously and peered down at her. Self conscious, she moved her hair out of her eyes and tried to meet his icy stare. Even at five, he was a stern boy. He would forever unnerve her, the only person in existence who could make her feel inferior. It would become her favorite drug. 

Neither of them knew it at the time. At that stillframe moment, all she knew was that he _mattered_.

“Don’t be an idiot,” he warned. “I won’t always be there to save you.”

And _that_ was the lesson she based her life upon. She never wore another kimono again, would stubbornly refuse even at Hashirama’s wedding years later. And from that day forward, she always kept her hair tied up and away. Dresses and long locks were pretty, but apparently they were an excellent way to get killed. At least she knew that now. 

When she told her mother of her decision, the kunoichi gave her a long, hard look. It lasted several minutes. Touka stood as straightly as she could, meeting her mother stare for stare. At last, her mother grinned broadly and chuckled. “I’m surprised it took you this long to defy me,” she admitted. She ruffled her hair. “That’s my little kunoichi,” she murmured. It was the most affection she’d shown her daughter since the day she was born.

Touka made a sour face, but inside she was pleased. 


	3. Watch My Back

They were thirteen when she realized that he loved her, too. She would not be certain of this, not until many years later. But at thirteen, she saw it as clear as the river she’d almost drowned in, and it was the beacon that lit her way. 

He was on sentry duty. Most boys his age couldn’t even sit still for longer than five minutes. His older brother, Hashirama, was the worst of them all. Never in the same place for more than an instant before he’d go dashing off again. Placing such a child in such a critical position as night sentry was asking for disaster. But Tobirama was a bit of an anomaly. He could sit perfectly still for hours. So still that one couldn’t even hear him breathe. Stealth came as naturally to Tobirama as breathing. He volunteered for sentry duty more often than not, partly because he knew he was the best choice. 

Partly because he preferred to be alone. Tobirama was a deep thinker. Perturbing his silence was like throwing a boulder in a glassy pond. The shattering sound and the disruption were the surest ways to send him into a temper. Most people didn’t know that until it was too late, but Touka already knew. Though they hadn’t worked together closely, she’d observed. It was eight years ago that she decided he was all that mattered to her. She’d watched.

Several hours past midnight was when the silence was deepest. Even the nocturnal creatures were asleep. There were a couple of stubbornly wakeful crickets and the gentlest sigh of a halcyon breezes like the warm kiss of summer. Other than that, there was nothing. Touka tracked him to his post. It wasn’t easy; a combination of guesswork, impossible intuition, and exceptional ranger skills. He didn’t prefer to use the trees like most did. Instead, he found some other, higher vantage point. This one happened to be a place where the earth had shifted in a battle long past. The ground had cracked, half of it shoved high into the air in tiered levels. Tobirama perched on the second level with his back against the first. The moon beamed brightly from behind the rock formation, casting his entire body in shadow. It was so perfect that Touka was momentarily awestruck. Thirteen… already a genius. The Uchiha had no idea what they were dealing with. 

She climbed up the rock face as quietly as she could. Too quietly would have been a mistake. A Shinobi of Tobirama’s skill on high alert could act too quickly when startled. She could end up with a kunai buried in the chambers of her heart if she wasn’t careful. But, if she made _too_ much noise, she’d ruin the entire purpose of sentry duty in the first place, announcing her presence to the world. In the deep empty quiet of the night, she may as well shout as put a foot wrong.

When she dragged herself up over the edge, he only glanced at her askance once, to show that he knew she was there. He rested one elbow across one knee, the other foot stretched out before him. He didn’t say anything. They knew the other was there; a greeting was redundant. Furthermore, asking why she was there was a waste of breath. She’d tell him the moment she opened her mouth, and they both knew it well.

“I’ll take watch,” she uttered softly.

He took a deep breath, let it out in a tired sigh. “Not necessary. I’ve got a few hours in me yet.”

She raised an eyebrow at him, though he didn’t see it. He was still scanning the surrounding area for enemies. A few moments passed in silence. The breeze caught a few strands of his hair. He didn’t even twitch an eyelash. Stone solid, as always. Still, his eyelids drooped, and there were already circles beneath his eyes from days previous. He was exhausted… just too stubborn to say anything about it. “I wasn’t asking,” she said finally. Banter like this was the closest she’d ever come to ordering him around. If she did it just right, it worked, as she found out in the next moment. 

He nodded as if to himself, then sighed again. Then, his face tilted in her direction and the corner of his mouth pulled in the barest semblance of a smile. “Okay, Touka,” he replied. “I’ll go to sleep.” He patted the stone beside him.

Suspicious—because he had declared he was leaving, then asked her to join him—she sat.

Then, much to her surprise, he tipped his head over upon her shoulder and shut his eyes. "Watch my back," he mumbled. He was asleep within moments. 

She watched.

 


	4. On the Concept of Emotion

She was fourteen when her mother died. Killed in action, as was expected. Her mother was always… a loud presence. She was the type to charge into battle headfirst without a thought for consequences. Touka had inherited her fearlessness. And probably her foul mouth. And likely some of her short temper. The day her mother died, though, Touka made sure to discard whatever impatience she’d gained from her mother’s gene pool. Fierce she might be, but Touka intended to _survive_. 

She hadn’t been quite as close to her mother as she might have preferred. Touka sometimes got the impression her mother hadn’t wanted a child. More often than not, her mother ignored her entirely. Sometimes she didn’t come home at night. Or wandered off into the wilderness for hours. If Touka didn’t watch her leave and tag along consciously, she was left behind to fend for herself. It might seem neglectful to a casual observer, but Touka didn’t mind. Those early years when her mother doddered off into the woods without her forced Touka to learn to care for herself. By the time she was fourteen and her mother got herself killed, Touka didn’t _need_ parenting in the literal sense.

Despite that, Touka had spent the majority of her childhood in the company of her mother, and her sudden absence was more jarring than she’d anticipated. The house was empty. Hollow and lifeless. Far too quiet, at any rate. Touka had never been much for hugs, smiles, and kisses, but the presence of her mother had been comforting regardless. She was something to come back to, a reason to return. Without her there, Touka was unexpectedly melancholy. 

Against her better judgment, she sought out Tobirama. She didn’t know what she wanted from him. A kind word, perhaps. Condolences. Commiseration. She didn’t know the protocol for “lost mother,” but he’d lost his about five years ago. Maybe he knew the answer. There was a deep and abiding ache in her soul, entirely unfamiliar. The solemn truth of the matter was that she simply didn’t know what to do about it. Tobirama seemed a good source of knowledge. 

She found him in silent meditation in a quiet glade outside the awareness of others. It was one of his lonely places—he had several—and she wasn’t supposed to know about it. When she arrived on scene, he winked open one eye in surprise. He scowled when he learned she wasn’t an enemy. “No one comes here,” he grumbled. He shut his eye and continued his silent discipline.

“I know,” she admitted. She dropped to a seated position facing him. Just being near Tobirama helped a little.

He didn’t speak again. Meanwhile, the ache in her heart expanded, spiraling out of her control. Grief that made no logical sense welled up out of nowhere. Apparently, her mother meant more to her than she’d originally thought. “My mother died,” she finally confessed lamely, fighting back tears.

“I know,” he responded. 

She blinked as the tears spilled, making tracks down her cheeks. She waited for more, but he didn’t offer it. Didn’t even open his eyes. Somehow, that drove the hurt deeper. “What did you do when your mother died?” she wondered, fishing for advice. 

His brow tightened. She’d interrupted his meditation time and he didn't seem pleased by the intrusion. “The same thing I’ve done every time someone has died,” he explained wryly. “Say a quick goodbye and forget about them as quickly as possible.”

Her jaw dropped. “How cold,” she whispered, shocked.

His red eyes flew open in irritation. “What do you want from me?” 

“Your mother... and your brothers, too?” she pressed, ignoring his question. “Don’t you miss them?” 

He was already shaking his head. “Of course I do. But they’re _dead_ , Touka. And being sad about it isn’t going to bring them back or make me feel any better about it. The world doesn’t stop turning for your pain. Emotions are for children. We Shinobi don’t have time for them. We could be dragged into combat at any time. You want to bring your cloud of doom and gloom with you into a fight?” His voice raised in volume as the tirade continued. Touka shrank with every cruel word, sinking deeper into the hole in her heart. “No? Neither do I.” He shut his eyes again. “She’s dead, Touka. You’re alive.”

Despite not having time for emotions, they welled up and clogged her from tiptoes to eyebrows. She leapt to her feet in a storm of fury and sorrow, yet had no words strong enough to convey just how angry she was. Instead, she just left him there, the boy fortress of solitude. She didn’t have another destination in mind, merely stalked back the way she had come.

In strides one through six, she fumed.

On the seventh step, the tears spilled again. She didn't feel them. 

Eight, nine, ten, she took a deep, shuddering breath. 

Every step after that was blind, blurred by hot, bitter tears. Whatever balloon of emotions she carried because of her mother’s untimely demise, Tobirama had burst it with his callous words. She sobbed uncontrollably, tearing through the woods in a beeline for home.

At some point, she crashed into something solid, and cared not at all. Until the something solid spoke. “Touka?” She didn’t look at him. His complex, layered tone told her exactly who it was: Hashirama. For every emotion Tobirama suppressed, Hashirama carried three more for him. In the next moment, he wrapped his arms around her shaking shoulders and gently shushed her. “I heard, Touka. I’m so sorry.” His voice broke on ‘sorry.’ Then, he started crying, too. “I know exactly how you feel.”

It was the kind word. The condolence. The commiseration. 

Touka was surprised to learn that she hadn’t wanted any of that after all. 

_Say a quick goodbye and get over it as quickly as possible… She’s dead, Touka. You’re alive._

“Goodbye Mother,” she mumbled, muffled by his shoulder. 

 


	5. The Meaning of a Word

At fifteen, Tobirama was rightly elevated to the rank of captain. He accepted his responsibility as he did everything else: somberly. Any boy his age should have whooped with excitement for the glory of it, then been immediately reprimanded by an elder. The highest rank afforded, and to one who hadn’t even reached the age of majority. His father and only surviving brother were proud. Butsuma nodded gravely, knowing his younger son now held the lives of many in his hands. He understood, too, just how heavily that weighed upon a man. 

Hashirama grinned and couldn’t stop grinning. His personality was too big to be contained. _He’d_ been elevated to captain only a few months back. Of course, Hashirama _had_ whooped with excitement, and was soundly cuffed by his father moments later. Despite the multitude of sorrows that plagued Touka’s elder cousin, he found equal time and energy for life’s small victories, too. Being a captain was a heavy responsibility, but Hashirama bore it well, against the odds. He led with frightening determination. Every battle was a chance to see people die, and Hashirama was sick unto death of that. His leadership was the proof. He hadn’t lost a single man in a fight. His cheerful exterior belied his true strength. Touka saw the deeply rooted truths written in Hashirama’s mien. He ached for all of them, and was always doing his best to keep them whole by every definition of the word. When this war was over—something Hashirama believed in more than anything—they would emerge from it physically and psychologically intact. Any other outcome would be his private failure. 

She didn’t envy him the scope of his feelings… but someday he’d be a fine leader. His eventual succession would inspire something the Senju hadn’t seen in generations: hope.

Tobirama didn’t smile for the promotion. He listened to the word ‘captain’ and heard ‘now when they die it’s my fault.’ He would, of course, exceed all expectations as he always had. In some ways, he’d prove himself more capable than his elder brother. And yet, he’d always carefully trim his accomplishments to fit snugly into Hashirama’s shadow. That was where he believed he belonged, and he was content there. The reason why would forever escape Touka. She wished he’d stand at his brother’s elbow, at least, but she’d learn to accept it. 

When their impromptu small celebration ceremony dispersed and Tobirama took his leave, he turned to her first. “Touka, can I talk to you?”

She nodded once in assent, posture straightening. They’d never discussed it, but she followed him naturally from the moment she’d started taking orders. He walked past her and began a deliberate progression toward his solo spot in the trees. She followed without asking why. She never questioned orders. When he reached his destination, he turned to face her. His stance was perfectly severe, every line in exact symmetry. Precise angle of the chin, stiff posture, expressionless face. Tobirama was born to be a captain. _The_ captain. Even the space around him seemed to bow in obeisance. He crossed his arms across his chest and regarded her. She stood at attention, ever the dutiful soldier. “I want you to be my second-in-command,” he told her flatly.

The admission shocked her to the core. They’d never trained together. Seldom had they fought together. The moments they’d spent together had been sparse and terse. She had no idea how he’d thought of her above all the others, but the fact remained that he had. She swallowed a sudden lump in her throat. Why was her heart pounding so fast? 

“Touka?” he prodded. 

She shook the foolery out of her mind. “Yes, taichou,” she accepted with a carefully measured military bow, fists clenched at her sides. 

He was silent a moment. “You don’t want it,” he observed.

 _More than anything,_ she wanted to say. “I wasn’t expecting it, is all,” she confessed, remaining subservient.

“Ah. And why not?”

“I’m not—“ she faltered, unsure of what to say. She _was_ capable. Effective. Intelligent. Dependable. She was dozens of adjectives that described the perfect soldier. She’d just never chosen to say them aloud. To hear another acknowledge it—and Tobirama, at that—was overwhelming,

“There’s no one I’d rather have at my back than you,” he told her calmly. 

She lost the rest of the breath from her lungs. Her mouth went dry. He hadn’t said anything odd or affectionate, yet that was the tonality that struck her ears regardless. It sounded like a confession to an admirer’s heart, and she stored it away. She smiled. “I’d be honored to be your second-in-command,” she accepted at last. 

“Stand up then,” he ordered wryly. “You have a lot less bowing to do now.”

“Yes, taichou.” 

 _Yes, taichou…_ They were the sweetest words she ever tasted. They were _almost_ the sweetest words she ever would.

Almost. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's so nice to see how you've missed me. <3 Thank you, everyone!


	6. Limit Reached

There comes a point when a crush evolves past admiration from afar, a point when unrequited fondness ceases to be enough to satisfy. Touka reached that just after she turned sixteen. The reason for it was another cliche.

Tobirama couldn’t have a halfassed second-in-command, so he took on the advancement of Touka’s training himself. She tried to tell him that he didn’t need to bother himself with it, but he insisted. “Teaching is the strongest form of learning,” he quoted. “I am also improved when I show you how.”

She didn’t know why she thought he’d go easy on her. Perhaps because they were family, or because they were something like friends. Whatever her preconceptions were, they were dead wrong. He drove her _mercilessly_. He woke her up at the ass crack of dawn to run miles and miles. He pushed her chakra to and beyond dangerous limits, despite her protests that chakra exhaustion was deadly. He harangued her with tactical questions to break every single silent moment she might have used to relax.

“What if they attack in the middle of the night?” he asked.

“We have sentries.”

“What if they kill the sentry and they attack in the middle of the night? What if the sentry falls asleep?” he persisted.

“Then we’re dead.”

“Touka,” he admonished with a frown.

“Assuming I’m the first one awake, rouse everyone I can on my way to you?”

“Excellent.”

And so they continued.

“What if the enemy blocks your way to a wounded comrade?”

“What if we run out of food supplies on a long journey?”

“What’s the protocol for dealing with a found out spy?”

“How to you knock a man unconscious?”

“What do you do when you find out they’ve managed to sneak behind us?”

“What do you do when they break the line?”

“What do you do if Butsuma falls in battle?”

“What do you do if I die?”

Finally, Touka got so tired of the incessant questioning that she rolled her eyes and scrubbed at her face and muttered, “What do I do if my brain is too tired from your stupid questions to think straight? Aren’t I dead anyway?”

His immediate answer was a disapproving glower.

Crossing him was a mistake. They spent the rest of the day sparring instead. His reasoning: if her brain was too tired then her body would have to pick up the slack. Apparently he wanted her to go to sleep exhausted every which way. She kept from rolling her eyes again, conscious that her discipline would be harsher if she put one more foot wrong. She wasn’t sure if he really meant to kill her by pushing her beyond her physical and spiritual capabilities, but she wasn’t willing to test the theory.

As she learned at various points throughout her life, Tobirama was a profoundly dangerous man.

They were not evenly matched. Touka took her own training seriously, but Tobirama was a league unto himself. He chose hand to hand combat—since weapons were exhaustible, and not always available, and chakra had a limit—and began. His strikes were perfect, concise, never a wasted effort. He used the exact amount of force that would be necessary to incapacitate and the proper distance needed to strike. She’d learned early on that overpowering the strongest of men was beyond her, and had adopted her own style. It consisted of blocking and deflecting, using her opponent’s own power to propel him past her, wasting his efforts and tiring him out. She was quick and agile. She knew how to evade even in close quarters, dizzying and confusing her foe. She could certainly outlast them, and conserving her strength made her a force to be reckoned with in the late game. And there, at the end, she knew where to put pressure on the neck to cause a black out. Her technique wasn’t quite as flashy as her cousins’, but it was effective.

But he knew her technique, and countered it. And he had far more stamina than she did besides.

Usually, they sparred for a couple of hours at most. Their fights were just as alike as they were different; no two were the same, and yet their styles were familiar and predictable. But today, to punish her insubordination, he drove her through noonday and into the early evening hours, until both their muscles were shaking with fatigue, and still he persisted just as doggedly as before. Though they were both exhausted, he never relented. Quick jabs in rapid succession, high and low. His grab and twist was answered with her stomp and evade. His circle and strike answered by her roll and low jab. On and on it dragged.

Until finally, blessedly… “Take a break.”

She immediately fell to her knees, heaving gasping breaths. Her entire body shook with deep muscle tremors. She was already beyond her limit. She doubted she could even get up again. Her face tipped forward, and she stared at her hands, quaking against the grass. “Damn it,” she growled to herself. Then, under her breath she muttered, “Slave driver.”

“Stand,” he snapped.

She damned him and his fox-like hearing. He’d overheard. She clambered to her feet with her heart in her throat and a mind buzzing with the word ‘doom,’ nearly falling twice before she could steady. She straightened her posture, worried about tipping over. But every thought fled when she saw him again. He’d pulled his shirt off, and sixteen year old Tobirama’s muscles were broadening and filling out his frame. He was, in a word, magnificent. He, of course, thought nothing of it. She said nothing, knowing the moment she pointed out his bare chest as a distraction, he’d remediate. She didn’t want _that_.  

It was the beginning of a desperate slide.


	7. Of Lines and Crossing Them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Charon Mendus begged me for a chapter. 
> 
> I respond well to the following methods of coercion: blood sacrifice, tears of anguish, praise and adoration, gifts of caffeinated beverages, pictures of silly puppies, fan art of my stories, and following me on Twitter. This is not an exhaustive list.
> 
> But thank Charon Mendus for this one. You get it a half a day early. :D 
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

The slide happened rapidly. Before she turned seventeen, Touka was an utter mess.

“Your concentration is slipping,” he calmly observed as they exchanged attacks. His words didn’t even tremble with the force of his blows. One after the other they came, faster and faster.

And he was right. It was everything she could do to fend him off. Today was a bad day for distractions. It was unbearably hot. Tobirama’s chest and face were damp with sweat. Even his hair had been hastily mussed aside to keep it out of his eyes, but it gave him a just-bathed look that—in a word—maddened her. She, too, was suffering of the heat, and she’d give her firstborn son to be allowed to take her shirt off. For obvious reasons, she kept her tits contained. “It’s hotter than hell out here,” she snarled, deflecting. Her eyes darted from one hand to the other. She pointedly avoided his eyes, which was a mistake. His eyes foretold his movements. “You can’t expect me to focus with my brains boiling in my skull.”

Suddenly, viciously, he kicked her feet out from beneath her. She loosed a yelp of surprise as she sprawled out backward. The solid stop of the earth as her back slammed into it knocked the breath from her chest. Tobirama was straddling her in an instant, one hand to her throat, the other holding a knife tight to her jugular. He held her there silently, red eyes staring impassively into hers. Almost curious, like a wolf watching captured prey.

Her heart raced, though she couldn’t be sure if it was because he was so near or if she was in the throes of panic. Her eyelids fluttered as she considered. Not panic. She wasn’t afraid. Thrilled, actually. She’d been a Shinobi for several years… but none had managed to best her, save this one. Tobirama defeated her easily. Envy jarred her senses; this man had the fluid catlike grace she coveted. He was merciless, enduring, and talented on every level. Flawless. Her lungs emptied at the realization, and the knife pressed further as her throat depressed. She surrendered. She knew he wouldn’t kill her, though she almost wished he would. _What a way to go._

His eyes flickered downward as she inhaled and exhaled the last mighty breath, as if noticing for the first time that she had breasts. Just as quickly, though, his concentration returned. “Why do you think I push you?” he asked quietly.

So close, she could smell his breath, damp and with the tinge of iron brought on by a vigorous workout. She lifted her chin further, daring him to cut her exposed throat. “I think you get off on it,” she sneered, taking a page from her mother.

His eyes narrowed, disapproving. “Incorrect.”

“Because you’re a prick.”

His lips twitched. Irritation, or the threat of a smile? “Also, incorrect.”

“Can’t beat your brother, so you wallop on me?”

For that, he frowned. The kunai let up. He rocked back onto his heels and regarded her as a hawk watches prey. He took a deep breath and sighed. Then he took an even deeper breath and began speaking, using the tip of the kunai to punctuate key points. “Out there,” he pointed, indicating the arbitrary battlefield, “they depend on me. If I should fall, they depend on you. I can’t allow both of us to die in the same fight. I’m trying to teach you to protect yourself.”

“I can defend myself just fine, thanks,” she replied testily.

He gave her a look that reminded her vividly of the cold edge of steel that was so recently pressed against her pretty throat. She had to stop herself from rubbing the spot where it’d been, just to make sure she wasn’t bleeding there. “An enemy might not fight fair,” he reminded her patiently. “They’ll try to trick you, bait you, overpower you, stab you in the back—“

“Shinobi—“ she cut in, “—deal with that all the time. This isn’t news.”

“Touka…” His voice warmed with genuine concern. It was unsettling, from him.

“You’re my taichou and my cousin,” she snipped. “You’re not my father or my brother. Teach me the damned moves. Don’t presume to know what’s best for me.” She scooted backward, away from him, unsettled for any number of reasons. She had a new set of distracting hormones, exacerbated by shirtless, warm-skinned men with sharp objects and piercing, authoritative stares. The young girl’s affection was exorcised. Touka suffered full blown, dilated pupils, aching lust. She needed to be away right at that moment, and disguising the reason in irritation seemed a safe bet. Her face felt hot, so she turned quickly to hide her rising blush.

 _“Kohai!”_ he barked sharply.

Every cell in her body sparked with electricity and crystallized, frozen. She halted the moment the word left his lips. Her eyes drifted shut involuntarily, reveling in the power of such a simple word. Ah… but it wasn’t the word that rooted her to the earth, but the command behind it. His was a voice to be obeyed. Her blood fled her face, for there was a certain level of inspired panic as well. She twisted on her heel and stood at rapt attention, hands clapped to her hips. “Taichou!” She swallowed the lump in her throat, several times. It refused to go away.

He only looked at her, eyes glancing up and down as if trying to determine what might be different… where their conversation had gone awry. At last, he settled on her eyes. It was intensely discomfiting. The setting sun bronzed his skin and threatened to dissolve her into a puddle of weepy feminine emotions at his feet. The longer he held her there with the force of his stare, the faster her heart pounded. The slide she was on slickened. She was careening straight into hell on red stares, holding desperately to the last solid handhold she could find. She knew there was no coming back from this descent, and yet she wanted nothing more than to let go and fling her hands into the air, howling. The silent staring contest stretched for so long that she almost left on principle alone. Something in his eyes stopped her, though… like a warning that she’d made her last infraction for the day. The next one would be costly.

A wicked streak flared in her thoughts: _what would be the cost?_

Her heart thundered to the rhythm of damned life. She almost didn’t hear his voice above the pulsing thrum in her eardrums. “Dismissed.”

The voice of the devil himself. Her king.

She obeyed.


	8. Self Taught Craft

Panting after her captain wasn’t going to do her any good as a shinobi. While diverting and exciting in its own right, Touka understood that she’d need to distance herself from that particular emotion before it got the best of her. More than one lust-fueled fool had danced into a death trap. Romance addled the wits. She didn’t have the time for it. And anyway, Tobirama was far, _far_ out of her reach. Dallying with his subordinate—and his cousin, at that—when he had yet to prove himself could cost him everything. She wouldn’t do that to him, not even for her own stab at happiness.

She set him free by removing herself. It’s worth noting, though, that when the time came, the two of them were the perfect two-man cell. They worked together so seamlessly that onlookers could almost believe they spoke to each other in their minds. But, when she wasn’t absolutely necessary to what he needed, she found something else to do with her time. If it bothered him, he didn’t show it. But Tobirama was hard to read, so who really knew?

Touka took his advice—in a way—and focused on defending herself. She rubbed elbows with some of the other Shinobi, looking for new sparring partners, each with his own unique fighting style. Most were more than happy to try to beat the snot out of her. Her name carried a variety of interesting monikers that painted a bright red target on her back. They knew of her mother, for one thing, a woman who had been labeled _easy, crazy_ , or simply _trash_. Touka was also cousin to Hashirama and Tobirama. She was an orphan. She was a girl. And she was new to their group. Discovering all of this was an unbalanced experience. Everyone wanted to rub her nose in the dirt, but the reasons for it varied. One reason in particular became glaringly obvious more quickly than the others.

Touka wasn’t the only kunoichi among them, but there were scarce others. The others were either well into their thirties or somewhere around ten. Her peers were a rough and tumble motley crew of rambunctious teenage boys. Every one of them had been blooded in a fight. Every one of them swore, gambled, and drank alcohol.

And every one of them wanted what was in her pants.

Touka was an instant celebrity, and she loved the notoriety. It probably didn’t hurt that she was quite pretty, but she had never bothered to gaze at her own reflection, and was blissfully ignorant of her attractive power. Instead, she picked up on the wooing undercurrent and learned to play every shinobi like a hand of cards. Manipulating one against the other came naturally. Before long, she’d maneuvered herself into a small fortune of fine whiskey, shiny gemstones, and ornate weaponry. Special things. Simply because her armor encased a perky set of tits. Amazing.

The first combat spar, however, was a bit of a letdown. Tobirama had prepared her better than she could have imagined. The movements of her new gang of misfits were jaunty, sloppy, and predictable. They showed their hand long before they attacked. They were slow and inexperienced. Touka had trained with one of the best—probably _the_ best, but she didn’t have the data set to prove it. Touka rolled her eyes after she’d bested the lot of them, pinning her fists against her hips. “Honestly, is that the best you’ve got?” she'd demanded with a smirk.

It didn’t take too long before she’d taken a page out of Tobirama’s book. Her new friends were pitiful warriors, and she cared about them—a little—so she took it upon herself to whip them into shape. “Watch his eyes,” she commanded. “Don’t ever step with your heels. Don’t shut your eye when you aim. Don’t tuck your thumb that way or you’ll break it. Never look an Uchiha in the eyes. Watch his feet instead.” And on it went. “Hold it like this,” she instructed, wrapping both arms around her student. Her fingers slid around his hands, adjusting his fingers to grip the shuriken properly.

He was a handsome boy. Fit. Good smile. Not completely useless in a spar. His name wasn’t important. He wasn’t important. But at the time, he was warm and muscled and gave her The Eyes. She wouldn’t allow herself to feel this way with Tobirama, for fear of tarnishing his shining reputation.

But she wasn’t worried about her own reputation. When Random Handsome Shinobi Number One gave her The Eyes, she went. A chance to learn something new, something potentially exciting and definitely confusing.

He offered her the sun. The moon. Every coin in his pocket and the shirt on his back. It was sweet, but it wasn’t right. But from her earliest trysts, she learned two critical lessons. For one, charm could win her many a battle that chakra could not, and sex could win most of the rest. And two… sex was _fun_.

She couldn’t know that she was following in her mother’s footsteps, step by careful step. Without a mentor, she’d learned the art of a kunoichi, by accident, all on her own. They were lessons she’d one day teach Hashirama’s wife, Uzumaki Mito.

They were lessons she’d seldom get to practice herself… but the art of deception was the craft of kunoichi, and Touka was the best there ever was.

**  
  
**


	9. Kitsune

Eventually, her hormones settled down. Sex was fun, but something was always missing, and she suspected she knew the answer. She remembered the moment she swore off it, too. One morning, she’d turned over to see a face there she didn’t remember and didn’t care to. She didn’t feel fulfilled. In fact, she was annoyed. He’d stolen all of the blankets, he was snoring, and he smelled like a liquor cabinet turned sour. She’d kneed him in the ass, jarring him awake. “Give me my blanket back,” she demanded. Dutifully, her temporary lover handed her the covers and drifted back off to sleep. When he started snoring again, Touka rolled her eyes and decided enough was enough. “Alright, Emperor Elegance. Get out.”

“What?” He winked open one eye. Took in the dark exterior outside. “It’s not even morning yet.”

“Don’t care. Get the fuck out.”

He snorted. “No.”

She craned her neck backward for a moment, taking in the full picture of her follies in one untidy package. An example would need to be made. She swiped a kunai from her nearby weapons pouch and slashed it through a cannister of poison. She pushed the heavy body next to her over and held it over his nose. “See this? Poison. Poison that will make your fat boil and take seven days to kill you. Sleep in and sleep forever, or get the fuck out of my tent.”

He went.

That was the day that she decided sex wasn’t really all it was cracked up to be. The fun was fleeting. Like alcohol… good for a short time until it left you feeling ill and bedraggled the next morning, wondering why you’d done it. When she emerged from her tent in full battle armor at the first light of dawn, she took in her surroundings with a new perspective. She already felt cleaner. Far across camp at the edge of a fire sat Tobirama, sharpening a set of shuriken. They made eye contact over the flames. Embers danced in the red of his eyes. There sat her prize, the one she wanted. She was wasting her time chasing rats when what she wanted was to capture the wolf, and such a trophy required careful planning and intelligence. She narrowed her eyes, daring him to comment on what he’d seen. He didn’t return any kind of expression. Upon seeing her standing there, he simply went back to work on the weapon in his hand.

A pretty red-haired woman joined him a few moments later, wiping the sleep out of her eyes. He smiled at her. _Really_ smiled. Touka listened for just a moment, feeling the unfamiliar sting of jealousy. They bade each other good morning, then spoke in low tones about casualties and injuries and numbers. A medic-nin, then. For today, she entertained suspicions as to the romantic nature of the woman’s relationship with her cousin. She’d learn later in the week that the woman was Uzumaki Mito, a refugee noble who’d attached herself to the Senju to offer her healing skills to the war effort. Tobirama would deny there was anything going on between them.

Touka wouldn’t know for quite some time that Mito had already been there for almost three years, kept a secret by her own design. Apparently she had an aversion to personal attachments. Had Touka known, she might never have leapt to conclusions about her connection to Tobirama.

In the meantime, Touka used their association as the proof that she needed to be better. For years, she would believe Tobirama _at least_ had an _interest_ in Mito, long after the elusive medic had returned to her own lands. It was a survivalist mechanism to assign a threat to everything unassuming, even if one was wrong. A safety designated as a threat could not kill you. A threat disguised as safety could. Kunoichi were a dangerous sort. Noble woman she might be, but she was also a refugee. She was running from something. Every sign pointed to a deceptive, tricky fox. Mito might be the fatal kind.

Touka didn’t have any time to waste. She poured every ounce of effort into her training. She pushed herself to and beyond her own limits. She tested the edges of her chakra, found hidden reserves of strength she didn’t know she had. She learned a set of powerful, terrifying new jutsu and made a name for herself. Her efforts didn’t go unnoticed. Within a few short months, she’d be promoted to captain in her own right, long before her rival lost her status as romantic threat, and long before Mito left the Senju.

Mito ended up being alright in the end. She'd grown quite fond of the quiet medic after she'd saved more than a few of Touka's boys. Touka was disappointed to see her go, but promised the other woman that she’d always be welcome back. It’d be nice to have an actual friend. 


	10. The Radical Nature of Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm bored. Enjoy an extra chapter on a whim. :)

Touka was not ashamed to admit that the warring states era was the best time of her life, even if she still burned her Tobirama candle in secret. Her sixteenth year was a tragic one, but by the end of it, she’d accepted death as a condition of humanity. Ever since the death of her mother, Touka felt grief less and less. Shinobi died in battle every time there was a clash with Uchiha. Thanks to her new admirers, Touka learned how to live in the moment. She gambled. She drank. She swore. She even tried smoking, but quickly dismissed that habit. The acrid smoke stung her lungs, and she coughed until her throat was raw and scratchy. Smoking was out.

She was promoted to captain a few months before her seventeenth birthday, on the same day that a handful of other shinobi were promoted to fill the gaps in ranking. A major battle left the Senju forces crippled badly, claiming the lives of a dozen captains, including Butsuma himself. Hashirama assumed command in his place. His chipper smile faded a little more with every bitter battle. Touka knew with certainty that Hashirama would never be the same, not until this war was behind him and he could stop burying kin. Sometimes, she caught him watching his younger brother, and she knew that his mind was imagining all the gruesome ways that he didn’t want to watch Tobirama die. They were the last brothers left of four. Hashirama took his responsibility for the lives of others more seriously than he’d taken anything in his life.

The three of them—Tobirama, Hashirama, and herself—became the governing unit of the Senju forces. They handled death differently. Hashirama bore it in sullen silence, withdrawing to privacy to mourn the dead. Tobirama shrugged it off, as he always had. When Hashirama retreated to reboot his purpose, Tobirama took the helm, churning the camp back to life, reminding the shinobi of their duty. With every death, there was a gap in necessity; chores needed to be done, supplies needed to be redistributed—for dead men needed no supplies—dead needed to be buried, roles needed to be refilled. Tobirama attended to all the gritty details no one wanted to think about in a wake of mourning.

As for Touka… every death dulled the feelings caused by the last one. In time, she more or less convinced herself that she was already living a death. It was a macabre outlook on life, but it worked for her. Their lives were tragic. Dirty. Bloody. In every way, the reality they endured day in and day out was a problematic thing, so she adopted an antonymous persuasion. She pretended life was the true death. Every Shinobi that died was headed off to the better life. She convinced herself to envy them instead.

In doing this, she became the joyful heartbeat of the camp. It was easy enough… she was already an outlier. She was a pretty woman with a dangerous aura, desired but unreachable. They gravitated toward her already like panting, rutting stags. If she wanted one, she but had to crook a finger and they’d be hers.

All except the one she wanted of course, prowling around the edge like a wounded wolf, watching with red eyes and saying nothing.

She accepted their attention and directed it to other activities instead. She replaced grieving and fear with gambling and song.

The three of them together kept the tattered edges of the Senju hemmed together. As fast as their Shinobi unraveled, they three patched them back together. Hashirama inspired their hope. Tobirama kept them focused. Touka reminded them to live.

There was only one problem with it all. She wasn’t where she wanted to be in the pecking order. She understood, now, why Tobirama kept hedging himself into Hashirama’s shadow.

Because now that she enjoyed the warm glow of the spotlight, she wanted nothing more than the cool shade of Tobirama’s somber shadow.

Between the verses of yet another raucous drinking song, she caught his eyes, barely flickering in the firelight. He was the only soul in camp that still never smiled. Her own smile slipped, and she dropped the chorus line, her expression suddenly blank.

Silently, he uncrossed his arms and melded back into the shadows and was gone.


	11. Mark

Middle of the night. Sentry duty. She never minded it. The silent night was the best time for her to think. It was here, in these solitary moments, that she allowed herself to fantasize about Tobirama.

And then, as if she could will her dreams to life, he was just _there_. Suddenly and without warning, like a ghost. She blinked and looked around sharply, worried she'd dozed off. “How did you do that?” she wondered aloud, not quite believing he was real.

He smirked. She was so used to the absence of his smile that it unbalanced her. “Can’t teach you all my secrets, or you’ll just teach _them_.” He cocked his head sideways, referring to the rabble rousing crowd that had been trailing her since the moment she broke away from him.

She leapt to her feet and bowed at the waist, eyes snapping shut. “Yes, taichou. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he told her. His voice was shockingly warm. Something was different about him tonight, and she couldn’t quite place what. “You've done well. And please, sit back down.” He motioned with his hand, a placating gesture.  _Relax._

Her fists unclenched and she tilted her head, unsure how to respond to that. Finally, her muscles uncoiled, easing only slightly. She sat, watching him carefully out of the corner of her eye.

He sat next to her. His nearness left just enough space that she could feel his body heat radiating between them. It was distracting. She was seventeen, nearly eighteen. She’d thought she was over this by now. Clearly, she wasn’t. Her mind focused on that tiny, insignificant connection, blowing it out of proportion. Luckily he began speaking, pulling her back to the present. “You aren’t supposed to call me _taichou_ anymore,” he murmured, leaning in her direction as if it were a secret. “We’re military equals. It doesn’t look right.”

 _It doesn’t look right._ Her unfounded hopes suffered a significant blow. She flushed, embarrassed. “I know. It’s habit. I’m not entirely sure how to break it.”

He nodded and scrubbed at his face, considering her answer. “You did the right thing, Touka-kun, breaking away from me.”

Her breath caught, thinking she was found out. She wanted to respond, to ask him _why_ , but the word caught in her throat.

He continued anyway. “You made a name for yourself. You’re an excellent captain. And once again, there’s no one I’d rather have at my back.”

She was silent. Hearing his words made her only more bitter that she no longer had a reason to tag along after him. They were equals, technically. She believed him to be superior in every way, actually, but there was nothing she could do about it. He had nothing further to teach her. She didn’t need to be taught. They’d reached the upper echelon of society. She hated it. She was pleased with her own promotion, but she longed for the days when he was _her_ captain. A moment ago had been the last time she would ever say _‘yes, taichou.’_ Her heart clenched at the realization.

“So,” he began, the beginning of a wicked grin curving his lips. “Want to know how I did what I did just now?” He stood and held his hand out to her.

Her eyes fixated on his outstretched fingers and widened. Was he offering to teach her something new? “What are you doing?”

“Training you,” he told her with a shrug. His fingers twitched, reminding her that they were there.

“I don’t understand,” she mumbled lamely. She raised her hand to give it over, but she hesitated. Hitting a man in a spar was something different entirely from offering a hand. Holding hands was too intimate.

He made the extra push, though, and grabbed her hand. She didn’t have time to protest. He hauled her to her feet and let go, leaving her fingers warmed from the brief contact. Her pulse quickened. Tobirama was a different version of himself tonight. Whatever strange magic brought it on, she praised it. He was quiet a moment, composing words. _Carefully_ composing words. She’d suspected he loved her at thirteen. Though it’d been a long time since she’d fed that particularly fantasy, tonight was a feast for it. “I miss it,” he said at last. “You’re a good student. It’s a good feeling, giving instruction to an attentive student.”

Her heart fell. That’s all it was then. Just a lesson.

But she brightened a moment later. Lessons were at least an excuse to spend time with him. “I see,” she whispered, settling into the feel of a new role. It was unfamiliar. What was it? Mentor and pupil? Teacher and student?

His eyes brightened with intrigue. “I just learned this,” he told her excitedly. “I’ll show you.”

 _Master_. “Yes, shishou.” The word dropped from her lips automatically, surprising them both.

There was a long, awkward silence that grew heavier with every agonizing second. The rest of the world fell hushed on top of it. The quiet was so empty that everything seemed dead but the sound of their breathing. Her face felt hot. If he accepted the title, it placed her far, _far_ beneath him in their interactions. Her throat knotted up. It was exactly what she wanted, but it was a strong declaration with the potential for endless shame. If he didn’t accept it, she’d all but admitted to worshipping him, and for no reason.

He reached out, slowly. She held her breath, anticipating contact and trying to focus on not melting into a puddle the moment it happened. His fingers closed around her forearm and dragged her arm up. There was a mark there she hadn’t noticed before. “This is mine,” he told her softly, all traces of humor fled. His expression was unreadable, once again.

The words branded themselves upon her heart as darkly as he’d branded her arm. She couldn't be sure if she imagined the banked fire in his eyes. A romantic, pining heart could paint a masterpiece upon every fragile perception.

But he didn’t correct her designation, became _shishou_ from that night forward. And that was the night she learned his teleportation technique, the one known as _hiraishin_.


	12. Circular Breathing

They worked very closely during her eighteenth year. It was the year Madara tore apart the world like his own personal apocalypse. He raged across the land, obliterating every small village and wiping out every other clan that crossed them. Hashirama was a total mess, for he sensed it was some kind of personal vendetta, and it was the worst kept secret of the Senju that he maintained a hope for his childhood friend’s redemption. This new brand of viciousness was a death sentence signed in blood and fire. At the same time, Hashirama knew that it was his duty to put a stop to the bloodshed. Senju was the only clan strong enough to answer the threat. And yet, Madara was his friend. 

Hashirama suffered heinous mood swings when he was upset. As the massacre continued, it fell upon Tobirama and Touka more and more to knit the Senju back together. For this reason, they often handled business as a partnership. Tobirama dealt with logistical matters and consoling his brother’s dark humors. Touka handled logistics when Tobirama was otherwise occupied, and maintained camp spirits when he wasn’t. They knocked heads together often to discuss tactics and predict movements. Madara’s new campaign was erratic. His path was nonlinear. They spent long hours trying to forecast the next move and prepare for it. 

And they remained a step behind for too long. The price was high. The toll was heartbreaking. Too many people died that year, and most of them weren’t the Senju. They all felt the sting of blame. Somehow, they all understood that Madara’s movements weren’t meant to engage the Senju. He was trying to hurt them in the place he had so far never touched: their souls. Madara piled up the bodies and labeled them with Senju blame. For allowing him to live. For being unable to stop him. For some unknown infraction he expected his old friend to know.

They finished their tactical discussion. Tobirama rolled up the map and returned it to its protective tube. Good maps were hard to come by. This one was old and fragile and highly valuable. He sighed deeply. There were shadowed half moons beneath his eyes. He was losing sleep. “You need to rest, shishou,” she murmured for his ears alone. “Exhaustion won’t serve any of us well.”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t need sleep,” he assured her. “I need to… I need…” His words failed, another symptom of tiredness. He pressed his forehead into the meat of his hand between forefinger and thumb, covering his eyes.

She laid one hand on his arm. It was rare for either of them to touch each other, but she only had the one chance to reach him with concern before he was lost behind his wall. “You need sleep,” she said again. 

“I can’t sleep. My mind keeps me up at night, thinking of strategy, of weakness.”

She understood. His worries were robbing him of rest. “I think I can help with that.”

He eyed her sideways, tense with suspicions. “What did you have in mind?” he asked carefully.

She shrugged, reading his reticence incorrectly and struggling not to blush. “Just a spar,” she offered. “If you wear yourself out enough, maybe your mind will rest, too.”

He nodded slowly. “Worth a try, anyway.”

* * *

 

It felt good to fight him again. They were both much improved, perhaps evenly matched, at least so far as hand to hand combat went. She knew, of course, that his talents were far above hers in every other category. He possessed greater, stronger chakra. He knew dozens more jutsu than she did. His skill with a sword was unparalleled, even greater than his brother’s. His tactical mind was sharp. But fist to fist, foot to foot, strength to strength… here they were the same. She lost herself in the motions, exhilarated by the level of concentration it took just to keep herself on her feet. His only advantage was that he had the hiraishin.

But then, she did, too. 

They became a blur of flickering bodies. She blocked every punch. He evaded every kick. On and on it went, perfectly balanced, a tug of war of effort and skill. As her muscles began to shiver with impending failure, shaking with every strike, aching with every block, she locked a grin on her face. These were, indeed, the best years of her life. She’d never felt more alive than when she fought Tobirama. He was the only one she’d ever faced that she couldn’t tip into the dirt in mere minutes. 

She was wrong. There would come a better time. She would feel more alive, and in just a few short moments. 

Because all of a sudden, his mirrored grin slipped entirely into a dire, pensive frown. She didn’t know why, but it frightened her with what it might mean. Her concentration slipped. She missed a critical parry, and he knocked her off her feet. She hit the ground with a grunt of lost breath. 

And when she breathed in the next one, she inhaled the breath from his lungs. She was so shocked she didn’t move as he savored his first taste, soft lips taking their time, lingering. She shut her eyes and convinced herself it might be a dream. She sighed and relaxed, and in that moment the kiss became theirs. When her lips parted just enough, his tongue slid past to find hers. He exhaled, the sound of his breath halfway between a contented sigh and urgent need. 

For several blissful seconds, it was everything she’d ever wanted. Moving bodies, roaming hands, tangled tongues and shared breath. Her mind buzzed with a thousand ‘whys’ and then blanked out, uncaring. She started to dare to hope. At the very least, the suspicion she’d nurtured since he’d dropped his head on her shoulder at thirteen was proven.

After some who-the-fuck-cares amount of time, he broke the kiss. They stared at each other, as if neither quite believed what had just happened. A sad smile crossed his features as his thumb brushed the line of her jaw. “That never happens again.”

He flickered away as quickly as he sometimes appeared, leaving her aching and frustrated and very, very confused.


	13. How to Catch a Wolf

When he kissed her and told her it would never happen again, she’d hoped he didn’t mean it. She hoped beyond hope that he was a weaker man than that, but she should have known. When he set his mind to something, he was just as stubbornly pigheaded as his older brother, so when he decided “I’m never kissing you again,” he seemed to throw the entirety of his will behind it. 

Life carried on as usual. The camp picked up and marched after Madara’s wake of destruction. Hashirama did his best to offer assurance to whatever survivors he could find, but there were agonizingly few. Touka and Tobirama partnered together to keep the Shinobi as happy and healthy as they could. Tobirama pretended that whatever had happened between them never happened. She followed his lead, as she always had and always would. 

She spoke as little as possible, worried how her words might change things between them. Whatever had happened, she wanted more. The best she could hope for was freezing that moment, a stitch in time. The less she spoke, the less she added to their timeline, minimizing the distance between _now_ and _back then_. She opted for a nod instead of a “yes, shishou.” She volunteered for the go-and-get tasks to separate them physically. 

And every moment she had to herself, she watched him. He seemed completely unaffected by whatever he’d done. He didn’t minimize eye contact, but he didn’t look at her more, either. He moved about his task as efficiently as before, coolly detached from her emotional turmoil. 

The months slid past, a continuous cycle of the same old shit. Fighting, planning, predicting, being wrong, patching up wounds and moving on. In time, she almost had herself convinced she’d dreamed it up, sliding back and forth between both opinions as often as the sun set in the west and rose again in the east. He either kissed her or hadn’t. He either loved her or didn’t. She either dreamed it, or it was gorgeously real. 

Of course, she couldn’t just ask. What if it wasn’t real? 

What if it _was?_

Dwelling on it was maddening, so she tucked the memory aside and moved on. She stopped focusing on him. Stopped pining. The abiding love never diminished, but she learned to accept it as an unshakable truth of her existence, as much as she accepted her inevitable death and the death of others. 

And then she got the brightest of ideas, and channeled a bit of her mother—unknowingly, of course. For Touka was the finest of kunoichi, self-taught, and from a line of accomplished deceivers. She’d learned how to ply her skills and had tucked them away.

But she’d tucked her talent away for this particular purpose. The prey was interested. All she needed now was the right trap. 

She lacked proper lady clothes, but then, Touka never _was_ a proper lady. Instead, she opted for leaving the armor at home—close enough—and applying a touch of wood ash to her eyelids. She stalked him as a hunter stalks prey, waiting for the right moment. When he was relieved of sentry duty, another shinobi taking his place, he made the slow, tired plod back to his own tent. She waited as he turned the flap aside. Waited for the sound of armor falling to the ground. Waited long enough for him to shed his clothes. Waited for the tired sigh that announced contact with bedding, the declaration of the end of the day. 

But before the lantern went out, she entered the tent. He froze in the motion of turning out the light, his gaze sliding up to meet her smoky, determined eyes. His mouth fell open, ready to speak. To tell her to go away. To say… _something_.

Touka knew tactics. They weren’t all that much different between war and seduction. Something-something _element of surprise._ Something-something _first strike._ She didn’t _want_ him to speak. She crossed the narrow space between them and straddled his waist. He retreated from the lantern, his hands automatically drawn to her hips. She bent down and kissed him, starved for affection. He returned it just as eagerly. 

Her heart thundered frantically in her chest. The only sounds in the tent were the breathy pants of breath between kisses, the smacking of lips, and the muffled moans of _more_. At some point, he remembered to extinguish the lantern. 

Somehow, her gambit had worked. There was no stopping him, not now that his clothes were off and they were in the dark and private. He jerked her shirt up over her head. She dragged her own pants off. Then he rolled them both and pinned her, crushing her wrists above her head. He held her there for a moment, thinking, perhaps looking for words. In the end, he opted for silence. Instead, he covered her mouth with his own. She poured her focus into that kiss, thinking it was her anchor to mortal earth.

But no, it was only a distraction tactic. He bore into her as he kissed her, their hips matching like lock and key, and her throaty moan was captured in his mouth, muffling her cry. Smart and calculating, even at a time like this. Touka was certain she was in heaven. Until he began to move, the slow, maddening thrusts of a man intent on taking his time. She knew how to keep quiet. She hissed and swallowed the next moan. The next yelp of pleasure was disguised against his shoulder as her teeth bit deep. The danger of being found out added a whole new level of excitement. 

Nope. _Now_ she was in heaven. 

They didn’t get a whole lot of sleep that night. The line had most certainly been crossed, at least for the space of _this_ particular evening. It was an odd thing. Once two people had sex, there really wasn’t a whole lot stopping them from doing it again. All personal boundaries were dissolved. All moral restraint, sullied. Whatever reason they’d had for holding back, it no longer mattered. What was done was done. 

But apparently, it didn’t extend into daylight hours. “Touka,” he whispered as light began to filter through the tent fabric. “You know we can’t do this.”

She shook her head in frustration. Without another word, she rolled out of the blanket and jerked her clothes back on. She avoided eye contact as he leaned on one elbow and watched her. She sat and pulled on her socks.

He tried again. “Touka.”

“I get it,” she snapped. “As you say, shishou, I await your command.” She bowed stiffly.

His shoulders sagged, but he didn’t try again. She left.

 


	14. On the Infuriating Nature of Secrets

They avoided the topic again, same as before. It was different now, though. She _knew_ she hadn’t imagined what they’d done, could still feel the dull ache of it between her legs. It was strange to be at a tactical table with Hashirama when two of the three of them had seen each other naked and heard the gasp of pleasure in their ears. Her mind kept wandering. 

Tobirama was, infuriatingly, just as collected as always. “Touka-kun,” he beckoned softly from across the table. “You okay?”

 _Bastard._ “I apologize,” she said, lowering her eyes and tipping her head forward in the semblance of a bow. “I’m afraid I didn’t sleep much last night.”

Hashirama smiled with sympathy. He hadn’t been sleeping either, though his reasons were likely nobler than hers. 

Tobirama arched one brow. “We’re fighting a war here. Try to get some rest. We need you in top condition.” His eyes returned to the map.

Her anger burned like a hot torch. “Yes, shishou,” she managed without grating her teeth together. She sharpened her concentration throughout the rest of their council. They were nearing the end of this mess of a war now. The sense of it was thick in the atmosphere. There was an almost tangible tension crackling in the air between the two brothers. It could only mean that their differing opinions of Madara were at the peak of disagreement now. Judging by Hashirama’s grim expression, Tobirama was probably winning that argument. Touka entertained herself by wondering what the outcome would be. 

Hopefully, Madara’s death. The leader of the Uchiha clan was a dark cloud over the Senju. Hashirama would grieve for him, but the pain of it would subside, given enough time. The land couldn’t afford to bleed much more for a broken friendship. Madara needed to answer for his crimes against humanity. 

“Touka?” Hashirama beckoned. 

She blinked away her daze and realized he’d asked her a question. “Hm?”

“Did you hear what I asked?”

“No, I’m sorry,” she admitted again. “Sleep,” she offered with an apologetic shrug. 

His frown cracked into an understanding smile. “I asked if you’d mind managing things for a little while. I have a debt to repay. It’s going to require some travel time.”

She looked to Tobirama and gestured, asking the question without speaking. “I’m staying,” Tobirama explained. “But likely I’ll have to disappear occasionally for… reasons.” The brothers exchanged a look.

Touka flared with irritation. “What’s this all about then?” she demanded.

Both of them smirked conspiratorially and avoided eye contact. 

Their secretiveness rankled, especially since her own secret wasn't even _slyly_ acknowledged. “Fine,” she snapped. She’d had enough. She fucked off. It seemed to be what they wanted. 

* * *

She watched Hashirama set off on his own from a perch in a tree. She went on a self-inflicted patrol of the perimeter after, to cool her head. It took three turns around camp for her to feel less pissed off. She’d have done a fourth, but that was when Tobirama popped up out of nowhere. She rounded on him with fists raised, ready to beat his ass into a pulp. He gripped her wrists mid-strike and pressed her back, driving her steps backward until she hit a tree. He held her hands above her head and stepped between her feet, pinning her to the bark with the entirety of his body.

“If you think—“ she began, but she was silenced when his lips clapped over hers. She melted into it at the same time she yanked against her restraints, simultaneously blissful and angry. 

Her hands came away from the tree about an inch before he slammed them back down. He nipped at her lip. “Don’t even think about getting away,” he warned. “I’ve got you exactly where I want you.” He smirked, his eyes darting between her lips and her eyes, as if he couldn’t decide if he wanted to kiss her again or watch her struggle forever. 

Her breath came in irritated swells. She fought him again, but he held her just as before, his grin widening with every failed attempt. “Tobi—“

His gaze sharpened. “No.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “Shishou,” she whispered.

He dove in for another, fiercer kiss. 

She didn’t understand what was happening between them—hot, then cold, then hot again—but she didn’t question it. So long as he was kissing her, she’d not interrupt. And so it was that he took her against a tree, and she rode her anger until he fucked it out of her. 

Afterward he held her there, the sides of their faces touching. The questions spun inside her mind as she wondered what it was that he was thinking.Then, as if waking from a dream, he stirred back into normalcy. He tugged his pants back up and eased her to her feet. She righted her own clothing. They stared at each other, still flushed with exertion. Perfectly composed questions played at her lips, but the one that fell from her lips wasn’t even a clear one. “Why?” she blurted. “What is this?”

He shook his head. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out. But I think it’s best if we stop.”

“I don’t think I can,” she confessed.

“This won’t ever make us happy.”

 _It makes me happy,_ she wanted to say. For some reason, she didn’t. 

“I want children,” he shrugged. But his unhappy eyes told the rest of that truth. _It can’t be with you._

She nodded. Sated and scathed, she resumed her walk around the perimeter alone. 

 


	15. Odds, Chances, and Two Sixes

On and on and went, a maddening storm of yes and no. They went days without talking or seeing each other, and then suddenly they’d fall into one another, anywhere and everywhere, but always in private. They kept their secret well enough, the thrill of it exciting and sad at once. The tone of their relationship—if that’s what it was—was both urgent and sweet, but it was dangerous and infuriating, too. She wanted more, always more. And the moment she opened her mouth to voice it, he declared that they would have less and disappeared for days, as if he sensed her affection and couldn’t abide it. They bickered like children, sulked like teenagers, publicly interacted like mature adults. They pretended like nothing was going on in the eyes of their fighters.

In the cloak of night, they fucked like it was the end of the world. 

It was on one such evening after their second go at it that he rose from the blankets and started to dress. It was an odd time of evening for him to go out. “Shishou?” she breathed into the silence, asking without asking. 

“I have to go to Hashirama,” he whispered back. 

She internalized the admission, wondering. Then she remembered their secretive conversation weeks back, and figured it had something to do with that. “But… Madara…” she began helplessly. The Uchiha stirred like a nest of hornets. They were readying for something huge and bloody. She was confident in her ability to lead the Senju in an attack, but that didn’t ease her nervousness. The coming battle was going to be costly; she didn’t want that kind of burden upon her shoulders alone. That was quite a death toll to add to her other responsibilities. 

“I’ll be back in time, Touka-kun, I promise,” he whispered. He bent over her, cupped her face with one hand, and kissed her thoroughly. 

“It will be soon, I think,” she hissed back. They shifted so easily from lovers to comrades, masks quickly traded out, dictated by necessity. 

He held a breath. He’d learned to trust her instincts. When he went silent like this, she knew he was considering her words, divining a sense of the direness out of the air itself. “We’ll be back in time.” 

A change in pronoun meant he'd be back with Hashirama. She felt infinitely better. For tonight, at least, she felt more love than hatred toward him. It was not always so. Away he went, into the aether. For what purpose, she didn’t know. Some secret mission his brother was about. Senju politics of some kind. She yearned for the gossip, embittered by being left out. 

Nothing to be done about it, though. She dressed and found the lively heart of camp. The fire was roaring high, but the men were mostly somber and pensive. They felt it, too. There was a storm brewing, and not the kind that felled rain from the sky. Their eyes shifted among their fellows, and it wasn’t alcohol in their mugs, but coffee. None of them would be getting any sleep tonight. They mostly sang somber hymns, if at all. Sometimes they simply went silent. Sometimes they told stories of happier days, or speculated a bit about the future… but all of them knew it for what it was. It was evident in the way their eyes cast sadly around the circle. This time tomorrow, some of the faces around the fire would be notably absent. 

She plastered a grin on her face and dragged out her dice and her throwing cup. “Alright, we’ve pussyfooted enough around the issue you’re all thinking,” she teased loudly. Their attention leaned in toward her like a prayer answered. They thought she meant to give them a pep talk, prepare them for the trials ahead. “The answer is yes. I _am_ dirt poor. So turn out your pockets, you lousy rats, and hand over your money. I haven’t been able to afford a good bottle of whiskey in far too long.”

One of the younger Shinobi stared at her as if she’d gone crazy. The dice in her cup rattled as they made eye contact. She dared him to say it. “Taichou,” he hissed. “Tomorrow—“

“Doesn’t matter,” she interrupted coldly. “All that matters is right now. And don’t you ever forget it, you hear me?”

Tension shattered like supercooled ice, broken with a set of two sixes. 

“Looks like I win!” she announced. 


	16. The Kiss of Death

True to his word, Tobirama was back in time, Hashirama in tow. They seemed calmer, somehow, as if a weight had been lifted from the shoulders, a quick injection of hope just when it was most needed. She nearly breathed an obvious sigh of relief, for the Uchiha could be seen moving swiftly from one place to another, the industrious motions of an army preparing for war. They would clash within hours. The appearance of her cousins was welcome. Hashirama immediately assumed the mantle of command. He snapped his orders and stalked from one end of camp to the other, rousing bodies and determination both. Tobirama gave her the look that issued the command to prepare, and off to war they went.

The battle was long and bloody, a disastrous haze of red. A song of dying. She didn’t so much mind wearing the blood of her enemies. It was proof that they’d ever lived at all. It was the copper-tinged stink that reminded her that she’d outlasted them. She’d survived. When it was over, she left the cleanup to Tobirama. He preferred it anyway. Rousing himself back into productivity kept him from dwelling on those that had died. It kept all of them grounded. 

The three of them had always handled the aftermath differently. Hashirama, as usual, disappeared entirely. He felt Uchiha deaths as keenly as he felt Senju deaths. While she didn’t agree with his sentiment, she respected it.

As for herself, she sought solitude. To say a prayer for the dead. To celebrate the living. To reboot her sensibilities so that she could smile around the fire later that night. But for Touka, scores of death were as many reminders to never waste life. She stayed close to the grim destruction of it all to remember that.

“I killed Izuna,” Tobirama blurted hoarsely from beyond her peripheral. 

She turned toward the source of the voice. Tobirama stood there like the god of bloodshed, unwashed and sticky with the black of dried gore. “Good,” she answered, confused. He reeked of emotional distress. It wasn’t like him at all. 

He was shaking his head. “No,” he breathed, walking toward her. He gripped her shoulders. “Do you not see?”

She scowled. “Apparently not. Dead enemy. Dead _skilled_ enemy. What’s wrong with that? Dozens of lives will be saved.”

“It’s not that he’s dead that concerns me, though that’s bad enough. Madara has nothing left to lose. There’s _nothing_ more dangerous than Madara with nothing to lose. He’s a wounded, cornered animal now, and one with power to rival Hashirama’s. No, what concerns me is that _I_ killed him.”

“I don’t understand,” she muttered, because she didn’t. 

“He might never forgive me for this,” he bemoaned, rubbing sticky fingers through his already blood-drenched hair. 

He meant his brother. A logical reason for his distress. She relaxed. “It’s fine, shishou.”

“ _No_ , it’s _not_ — _fine!_ ” he roared. He paced angrily. “It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. I wasn’t supposed to…” he growled, frustrated. “But he was too damned strong, and I had to, and…”

“Shishou, just calm—“

 _“I am not calm!”_ he bellowed. 

Her eyes widened. She’d never heard him yell at her in anger before. His frenzied eyes turned upon her, wild and bright like the red of blood. He really did look like a shinigami then. The rage transformed then, seeing in her another outlet for aggression and stress. He crossed the space between them in two quick strides, sinking to his knees and pushing her onto her back. The sharp bones of his hips ground hers into the earth. The heels of his hands drove the entirety of his weight into the tender meat of her shoulders. She hissed from the pain and exhaled a whimper, completely at his mercy. So close, he reeked of the copper tang of freshly spilled blood. She breathed it all in, adding it to the compendium of sensation that was Tobirama, darkness and fury to add to complication, passion, cruelty, and stonewalled defense. He was as wicked as she was wanton.

And it was _totally_ fine.

He was rough with her. Very rough. He turned her over and dragged off her pants. He gripped her hands behind her back and held her steady. She had no wedge to keep her face out of the dirty, so her cheek pressed into hard soil, smudging her face. Sharp pain assailed her where her bony cheeks drove into the ground. Her muscles protested where her abused wrist bones ground into her back. She resisted. She bucked. In the end it didn’t matter. He took what he wanted and she _begged_ him for more of it. And in the end she cursed him for leaving her panting into the dust while he calmly returned to his duties. 

She lay there, thoroughly chastised and dazed. She replayed the scene over and over again. Quick, rough, and dirty. It was her favorite romp so far. The taste of death brought out the worst in Tobirama. 

And she loved him most at his worst. 


	17. Wraiths

He avoided her for much longer that time. It seemed he might have been well and truly pissed off after all. She moped a little, but not where he could see. There was much to be done in the aftermath of Izuna’s death. Events happened in rapid succession. Most of the Uchiha defected Madara to join the Senju. Morale in the camp was tense, so she tossed herself into the mix and did what she did best. Gambled. Drank. Swore. She gave the appearance of enjoying herself, all the while mourning a relationship that never really was. 

Tobirama threw himself to his responsibilities with as much fervor. He went out of his way to avoid crossing paths with her. He kept close tabs on their new Uchiha ‘allies.’ When he wasn’t busy with them, he knocked heads with Hashirama. Sometimes they spoke quietly. Sometimes they raised voices. The matter of Izuna’s death was a hot topic, and the brothers Senju had polar opinions on it. She did her best to keep the shinobi distracted, as much for her own peace of mind as for theirs. She’d never seen the two brothers squabble so heatedly. 

And then, suddenly and without warning, Mito was back. It was the breath of fresh air that Touka needed, the ray of sunshine in a dark land. She’d always liked Mito; they were a different kind of kunoichi, but in many ways exactly the same. Touka was surprised to learn, however, that Mito and Hashirama had married. It explained a lot about the secret that had plagued Touka. With Mito around, the diversion of gossip improved. Her spirits lifted. It helped, somewhat, to alleviate the distress she felt at Tobirama’s sudden and thorough withdrawal.

It was a very long time before they spoke again, after the foundation of Konoha. Tobirama threw himself into the establishment of policy, long hours of meetings, careful surveillance of the Uchiha—including Madara—whom he could never quite bring himself to trust. Hashirama had invited her to take part, but she’d declined on account of Tobirama’s presence. She knew he didn’t want her there. Knowing that was like caging her heart with knives and trying not to move for fear of slicing it. She spent her time instead training. Or drinking. Occasionally, Mito sought her out for guidance. It was a time of lofty ups and dismal downs. 

She didn’t speak to Tobirama again until she’d attempted to off Madara as a favor for Mito—though the fool woman didn’t see it that way—and royally fucked it up. She went upon her belly, groveling like a beaten dog. Surprisingly, it wasn’t her admission that Madara had seen the hiraishin and likely suspected Tobirama that bothered him. It was the fact that she’d tried to kill him _at all_ that riled him up. Leaving Konoha might have been easier, but if she’d left Tobirama in danger and something dire happened to him, she’d die of shame. 

She’d endured a glare of such pure, cold rage that she probably _did_ die of shame. Perhaps she was a wraith, chained to the world by the power of his will alone. It was not her proudest day.

He wouldn’t even look at her after that, but he did command that she stayed close. She felt the sting of discipline more keenly than she ever had. He ordered her not to speak unless he allowed it. He moved her into his home. She slept on the futon in the living room, forced to endure the silence of him sleeping in the next room yet forbidden to touch. The only attention he offered her was laced with displeasure. There were events in motion now that none of them could stop, and they put all of Konoha at risk.

And she was partly to blame for it. She deserved death. But during his tirade he’d forbidden even that without his command, and like the obedient pet that she was, she murmured a disgraced, “Yes, shishou,” and lapped up whatever he offered her like a starving animal. Even if it was his wrath and venom, she glutted on it.

She’d never understand love.


	18. In Case of Fire

_Family meetings_ were harder than war. 

She wisely spoke not a word on their walk home. He didn’t speak either. She knew his mind was probably a mess of _risk_ versus _reward_. A clash between Hashirama and Madara loomed upon the horizon, and the enemy was volatile and unpredictable. He could appear at any time. He might destroy Konoha. He could kill them all in their sleep. 

Tobirama would not sleep well until it happened. Her fault. Which meant neither would she. 

When they shut themselves in for the night, he loosed a heavy sigh. He seemed older in that moment. Tired out and stressed. They both stood in the center of the living room. Her eyes were downcast, but she could see him out of her peripheral. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, trying to decide what to do with her perhaps. The currents between them had been destructive and toxic, but her love for him burned as brightly as it always had. To her shame, she yearned for any scrap of true affection. A smile. A touch. A hug. A kind word. It was too much to ask for forgiveness.

“Touka,” he whispered. Only that. 

She dared to peek from beneath her brows. It surprised her to see that the hard lines of anger had ironed themselves out. A spark of hope ignited. “Shishou.” Her voice was barely audible, drowned in impossible hope. 

“Come,” he beckoned. 

His voice lost no power for its low volume. Her eyes lifted as she hesitated. She didn’t dare believe he’d forgiven her. But yes, there it was. He tipped his chin once and waved her forward with one hand. Slowly, she made her way toward him, afraid of rejection. She couldn’t handle any more of it. Their love had been doomed from the start, and though she knew it, she’d soldiered onward anyway. The price of it could come at any time. When it did, she’d be slain, her soul destroyed. She’d be nothing but an aching and empty husk, and though it was foolish and insane, she accepted that.

Because he was her only selfish desire, and what love she might have had for anything else was all focused on this one man. 

When she was close enough, she heard his much easier sigh. Felt his fingers close gently around her wrist. Then his arms closed around her tightly, squeezing the air from her lungs. She didn’t mind though. He’d never actually hugged her before. “I’m sorry,” he said softly against her head. 

She blinked, disbelieving.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “For being cold. I don’t really know what I’m doing. I know I hurt you. I know I do it all the time. And I’m sorry, Touka.”

“It’s okay,” she assured him, curling her fingers into his arms and trying to fight back silly tears. 

“No. It’s not okay.” He kissed the top of her head and lingered there. “Touka. Madara could come back at any time. There are things we need to talk about, in case… in case…”

_In case I die._

“Don’t say it,” she begged. “Please, just don’t.”

“Sleep with me tonight?” he whispered. 

She nodded, too choked with emotion to respond. He hadn’t stolen a kiss. He hadn’t pinned her down. He didn’t demand anything of her. Not that she’d minded, but the tone of it had changed. He’d _asked_. It might be too much to hope that they were beyond fucking in secret, but she hoped for it anyway. Maybe she could keep living here. Maybe no one would notice. Maybe no one would care. _Maybe, maybe, maybe._

He lifted her and carried her past the threshold of the room she’d been forbidden, and there he laid her upon the blankets. He stepped back and dragged his shirt up over his head. He dropped it, ignored, looking at her. “Before the world burns down in flames,” he murmured, crawling from the foot of the bed up over her body, “I want you to know that I love you.” And he proved it, gently and thoroughly. He kissed her as if she contained the only breath that would sustain him. He held her as if she were the key to all happiness. And he loved her as if the world was ending.

And tonight of all nights, it was a very real possibility. 

Late into the night, in the middle of an hour of silence, he admitted he was afraid. 

And in the next breath, she admitted that she loved him, too. 

There were no more secrets. Not between them, anyway.


	19. Waning Gibbous

The shadow of death looming over Konoha was as much a blessing as the warring states era had been before that. The fighting had driven them together—somehow—and Madara’s treachery provided a sharp and narrow view of the world. Tobirama wasn’t scared of much, but apparently when he was, it caused him to hold tightly to the people that meant something to him. He feared for Hashirama’s safety. He feared for the safety of Konoha. He never said he feared losing her, but then, he didn’t have to. She felt it.

For all of the days of waiting for Madara’s inevitable return, they were lovers in the truest sense. Touka’s stranglehold on the future-that-would-never-be loosened, day by day. She lived there, with him. She slept in his bed. They had normal conversations over coffee. They laughed at stupid jokes. They spent moments in silence, content with just that. Though the world could end at any moment, Touka was happier than she’d ever been. 

Meanwhile, on the other side of the village, Mito and Hashirama maintained an uneasy truce. Madara was a wedge between them. Touka knew they’d be alright, though. They loved each other, truly. Madara would necessarily die, and the discord in all of their lives would be dispelled. 

And afterward… 

She glanced at Tobirama, his bare back to her as he busied himself with the evening meal. He cooked. She hadn’t known that before. 

Afterward… 

Her toes curled to think of it. Mito seemed so happy. Touka wanted that, too. But Mito was a wife. She had a child. Together the three of them had the elusive future Touka had never dared to dream. 

She watched his muscles slide beneath pale skin as he worked. _They_ couldn’t get married. _They_ couldn’t bear children. _They_ didn’t have a real future. She frowned, ignoring it. Instead she rose from where she sat and went to him, tucking her hands between his shoulders and biceps and curling her arms up and around. She would fantasize anyway. She rested her face between his shoulder blades and breathed in the scent of him, making a memory. Perhaps it wouldn’t last.

Perhaps it would. For right now—the moment that mattered most—it wasn’t important.

He paused, the knife teetering on the cutting board. “What did I do?” he purred, amused.

“You just _are_ ,” she murmured blissfully. 

He chuckled and kept on cutting. By the smell of it, onions. She rested there until he was finished, basking in the amazement that she was even there. When he was done, he brushed the bits of onion off the knife and turned around against the counter, absorbing her into his body and loosing a contented sigh of his own. 

Life continued that way, a suspended happy bubble in the midst of chaos. Outside of his house, Tobirama was a force to be reckoned with. The moment he stepped outside, the grim reminder of potential destruction set his lips into a firm line. He adopted the scowl of pure unhappiness. He snapped at her and barked orders, but she endured. She understood the depth of his stress, and she wasn’t an innocent party to it. His wrath was deserved. But the moment they were home, he sloughed off the negative energy. He unwound, slowly but completely. Every evening ended the same way. “Touka, come,” he’d beckon softly. He only held her at first. The tactile reminder of something to live for removed all of the stress. She could feel his muscles relaxing as they breathed each other in. The rest of the stress was worked away in his room. 

Still, she felt the elastic band of troubles coiling tighter and tighter. Every day Madara didn’t attack increased the probability that the next day was _it._ Tobirama’s winding down sessions grew longer. He loved her more fiercely, held on more tightly.

The end was nearing.

And Touka couldn’t help but wonder where that would leave them after. Though she prayed for the shiny happily ever after that surely awaited Mito, she suspected that the advent of peace would bring bad news for the two of them. Their brightest moments happened during the darkest times. Death’s urgency. Fear of loss. A common enemy and a shared comfort in the face of violence. They were born and raised in an era of war. That and their love for one another were really all they had in common. Their darkest moments would likely happen during the brightest of times. It couldn’t last.

It didn’t.


	20. Darkest Times in Brightest Places

Madara’s death was the end of a lot of things, and their relationship was one of them.

She left Mito with her husband and teleported herself back home. His grim look brightened the moment he saw her. He didn’t tell her to come. He didn’t hug her. Instead, he yanked her close to his body and kissed her like one of them was dying or nearly had. She chuckled, guessing where this was going. The surety of death got him riled like nothing else could. He’d been almost certain Hashirama would be killed tonight, had feared that Konoha would be a ruin. When he saw her, he knew it was not so. 

He pulled away, and they swayed back and forth as if dancing. “I let Mito go,” she confessed. He frowned. “She sealed the kyuubi within herself. Hashi killed Madara.” 

“Your ability to follow orders has been somewhat lacking of late,” he chastised. 

“Shishou has gone soft,” she teased with a smirk.

He tugged her closer, his breath hot on her ear. “Hm. I think not.” 

She grinned, for he hadn’t meant the same as she had. It was a particularly sweet night, for her.

* * *

Morning brought about a profound change in his demeanor. She awoke to a cold bed and no coffee. When she found him again, his attitude was chilly and detached, and he had 'things to do.' She thought nothing of it at the time. A lot had happened in the past twenty-four hours, and she couldn’t pretend to know what was going through his mind. She carried on with business as usual. Training, checking in on Mito—who was blissfully happy, though a bit subdued—a walk through Konoha, and a check in with the boys. With the threat of Madara behind, they were in celebration mode. Whiskey and cuss words flowed in equal proportion. She thought about stopping to play a round of dice, but her mind was weighted with Tobirama. She’d end up losing more money than she’d win. 

She went home to wait instead, and ended up falling asleep in his bed. 

She awoke to the sound of the door closing. Her heart leapt into her throat—a silly, sentimental reaction to the return of the man she loved. He took longer to come to the room than it rightly should have taken. And when he did, he merely leaned in the doorway, his arms crossed and expression unreadable. 

Dread pooled in her chest. She didn’t know what he was thinking, but the sappy lover’s smile he usually wore for her was gone. “I think you should go home,” he said.

“Just like that?” she yelped, taken aback.

He nodded slowly, gravely. 

“Why?”

He fixed her with an agonized stare. _You know why,_ his look said.

“No, I want to hear it,” she demanded. _“Why?”_

“Mito’s pregnant,” he said flatly.

“What does that have to do with—“ _Oh._ “I see.” She did, too. The smack of truth, right in the face like ice water. For the treachery of Madara had all begun this way, by the cruel trick of biology that lovers sometimes faced. 

“What we do here is dangerous,” he explained. “If there’s a child…”

“I know,” she bit off quietly. 

The awkward silence stretched. There wasn’t anything left to say. He was casting her out. Their charade was at an end. She scooted to the edge of the bed, her heart in her throat. She would not cry in front of him, but if she was forced to look at his face, she would. She kept her eyes downcast. “Can you move, please?” she rasped. He was blocking the doorway. He slid to one half of it. 

She maneuvered past him, but he caught her as she tried to escape. “Touka…” His face was close. Too close.

“Let go of me,” she whispered brokenly. 

He didn’t. 

Her soul was crying. But his lips were near. She tilted her face toward him where he waited, and their lips met for the last time. It was bittersweet, a lover’s wordless goodbye. At the end of it, they hovered closely, each considering whether to stop or continue, torn by the gravity of decisions. “Can’t we just do something selfish, for change?” she wondered aloud.

There was a very long silence as he considered it. She supposed she should have been happy for that much. At least he cared, in his way. 

His lack of answer was the one she needed. “I see,” she repeated. She broke free and made her way to the door.

She would do it. She would break every convention, and damn the consequences. Leave Konoha. Give up being a shinobi. Risk the genetic lottery of close relations to give him the children he wanted. Break _every fucking rule in existence_ , just to continue as they had been.

He wouldn’t.

That night, she carved his Hiraishin seal out of her arm. 


	21. The Empty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDITING NOTE:
> 
> My apologies... I saved a backup of this before the computer crashed, and I lost a line on accident. I just put it back at the end of the previous chapter. Sorry you had to read it without it at first. :-( It's kind of important, though, for seamlessness and avoiding plotholes, so be aware that it's there. Thanks! (And sorry, again... it never would have escaped notice if not for all the computer issues, but hey! At least I didn't lose any of the stories themselves!).

She found a grim brand of satisfaction in his unhappiness. She observed him try—unsuccessfully—to make connections with other women, seeking the thing neither of them would know. She recognized the pattern of nobodies as her own; meaningless connections attempting to replace the one denied. He only gave it a few tries before he gave up entirely. He devoted what remaining loyalty he had to Hashirama and the administration of the village. He established institutions that would shape their future for generations to come. She watched him find an iota of happiness in training his own team of young ninja. She supposed that, for him, it was the closest he’d ever get to a family of his own. He treated them as he probably would have treated his own children. He was a stern and effective teacher, but he cared for them, too. His students both feared and loved him.

She supposed that was appropriate. It was the same kind of sentiment he inspired in everyone, after all. 

Her friendship with Mito fizzled out. Touka wasn’t the best of company anymore. Touka had seen how other friendships worked.  _Like_  was attracted to  _like_. Before, they were two troubled kunoichi with things to learn from one another. Now, Mito was devoted entirely to her family. Mito didn’t need her. She had Hashirama and two heavens-sent children. 

Touka was but a lonely ghost at the fringe. An unwanted sadness like a grey cloud that tarnished the happiness of others. 

She withdrew. She watched from the sidelines as lives progressed. She waited for Tobirama to change his mind. Waited for his unhappiness to bring him back to her. She watched Mito and Hashirama enjoy all of the wonders that they deserved. But mostly, she waited for the break that would never come.

Eventually, she tried to do the same thing Tobirama had done. She tried to fill the void with someone she _was_ allowed to love. But just as before Tobirama, so she was the same after. Something was always missing from the half-assed relationships she struck. She remembered the last one as vividly as she remembered the drunk she’d kicked out of her tent years before. She was right in the middle of sex, mid-fake moan of pleasure, pretending to enjoy herself. And she’d just shoved him off her. He dropped unceremoniously to the floor, cursing for what was, deservedly, a rude gesture on her part. But she just couldn’t do it. He deserved better than what she could give him, and told him as much. 

That was the night she left the village. Probably no one even noticed. She slipped out in the middle of the night. 

She traveled the world for some random number of years. She couldn’t quite remember. Maybe six? Maybe seven? Nothing interesting happened in that time. She wanted to be gone long enough for him to move on so they both could. She waited for what she assumed was long enough for him to assume she was dead. To mourn her, exorcise the scent of her from his sheets. Whatever it took for him to be happy again. By the time she returned, she hoped he was married and dandling brats on his knee. 

He wasn’t. 

The moment she turned the key in the lock of her cold apartment, he was suddenly _there_ , pressing her back into it with the force of fevered kisses. She didn’t even question it. She kicked the door shut behind her. They fell into a dusty bed, gasping for air between kisses. She didn’t say a word until he pulled her shirt over her head, and then she couldn’t remain silent a moment longer. “What changed?” she asked.

“Not a damned thing,” he snarled, diving in for another kiss. 

She raised a hand to stop him. “I won’t do this again,” she rejected. “I can’t survive another separation.”

“There won’t be another one,” he promised, shaking his head. “I almost didn’t survive this one.” He leaned in again.

She stopped him again. “ _Promise me,_ Tobirama," she hissed. "No matter what happens.”

He sensed the seriousness of the situation and calmed for a moment. His hands found hers as he leaned near. “I swear it, Touka. I’ve tried every conceivable method of forgetting you. I can’t. I love you. Only you. I’m only sorry it’s taken me so long to admit it.”

“Damn the consequences?”

“Damn the consequences.”

She smiled. “Good. I love you, too.”

She gave him his kiss. In between them all, they shared fervent attestations of love. “Stay with me always,” she begged.

“I will. Next time I do something stupid, hit me.”

“I will. Can I move back in?”

“I insist. Do you love me?”

“You and only you. And you?”

“Of course.”

“Forever and always?”

“Forever and ever.”

* * *

 

Forever lasted another week. 


	22. The Tragedy of the Living

She learned the very next day that nothing had changed, just as he’d said. Just after she’d left, war had torn the land apart in her absence. Somewhere along the way, her noble cousin Hashirama had been killed in battle. It grieved her to hear it. And, too, she felt guilty. The moment she’d done the selfish thing and left, her selfless cousin was dragged into a war and died for it. Grieving didn’t last long. It was Hashirama, true, but the years hadn’t changed her belief that life on earth was worse than the bliss of the afterlife. Living was the true tragedy.

Touka herself was living proof. Everything good that had ever happened to her had been taken away. 

But it explained Tobirama’s need to woo her; death had always sent him into her arms.

The morning she awoke to another cold bed, she nearly screamed in frustration. She stalked all over the village in a storm of feminine rage, ready to gut him from balls to brains for deceiving her again. She fended off a number of friendly greetings and welcome backs, even a pleasant hello from Mito herself—and two delightful children—in her search for her flight risk lover. Mito, at least, had the chance to tell her the truth of it. He’d been called away on some kind of mission far out on the border, remnants of the war that yet raged. He’d probably only dashed off without a farewell to kindly allow her to sleep. As she considered it, Mito laid a hand upon her arm. “Touka, we’ve really missed you,” she murmured. “And he’s been much happier this past week. I presume I have you to thank for that. It was good to see him smile again.”

“Thanks,” she mumbled, her thoughts elsewhere.

“Don’t worry about him,” Mito assured her with a smile. “He’s the greatest shinobi alive, and he’s got the best of the best with him. He trained them himself.” Touka nibbled at her fingertips, extraordinarily worried. “Tobirama isn’t so easy to kill.”

 _Neither was Hashirama._ She didn’t say it.

“He’ll be back before you know it.”

Her optimism wasn’t as welcome as it should have been. Touka thanked her and went home. 

_Forever and ever._

__Forever and ever._ _

_Forever and ever._

He loved her. She would wait. And stubbornly, she did so. She’d spent much of her life waiting. A little while longer wouldn’t hurt. Her man was a dedicated shinobi of the highest caliber. He had responsibilities. She should be proud.

Yet she had a _really_ bad feeling about it. Touka didn’t have the best of luck. It seemed her life had been a litany of tragedies. Besides her general pessimism, though, she just had the striking sense that something _was not right._ She switched back and forth between the staunch obstinance of outlasting his mission and the crippling worry that something terrible had happened. 

When the knock sounded upon her door, her heart fluttered with excitement. But it fell twice as far. Tobirama didn’t knock. He didn’t need to. She waited so long to answer the door, heart caught in her throat, that the knock came again. She went, but she froze again with her hand on the door knob. The knock came again. She took a deep breath and opened it. 

She recognized the face that greeted her, though it was older than the last time she’d seen it. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. The emotions cautiously not painted upon his face were the evidence of the tragedy. He handed her a battered scroll, sealed with wax. “I’ve been holding onto this for five years,” Sarutobi Hiruzen told her somberly. “When he gave it to me, he told me that this was my most solemn duty. He said that if I had to search the world over for the rest of my life, I was to make sure you had it.”

She stared at it. If she didn’t take it, it wouldn’t be true. She went to shut the door. Shut him out. _Deny_. 

His foot was already between the door and the jamb, though. She stared at it blankly. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I wouldn’t deny that man his last wishes. He was like a father to me.” He hefted the scroll to draw her attention to it.

“I don’t want it,” she barely said.

“You will,” he assured her with an equal measure of grief. 

She took it.

He left.


	23. And Never

She sat upon the bed with the scroll in her hands, scraped out and hollow. She felt sick. She might not have breathed for a long time. For her entire life she’d been chasing a fleeting flicker of firelight. 

And there she sat, in a dark room. The light was out. 

Silently, she curled in upon herself on the blanket. She clutched the scroll to her chest and fell asleep.

She woke. She stared. She went back to sleep. It seemed at last that her fighting spirit was gone. The days came and went without her moving from that one spot. 

At some point, there was a knock on the door. It sounded as if it were underwater. The voice might have been Mito’s. She shut it out. In time, whoever it was went away.

On and on it went. She didn’t know how much time passed, but in the confines of her windowless apartment, it was eternal night. She had been content to exist within his shadow, chasing the promise of the light on the other side. Both that light and total darkness scared her in equal measure, but his shadow was a fickle thing with a cruel soul. She could never be sure, then, if she existed more in the light or the darkness.

She knew now. 

She _hated_ him. It was the first emotion to break out of the tide of apathy, hot and angry. She followed the light of the fires of hate back to the land of the living. She hated— _despised_ —him for the things he’d done to her. She hated the game he’d played with her feelings. Hated how he’d starved her and tossed her the scraps when he was so inclined. Hated that she only meant something to him when he was most aware of his own mortality. Hated that he couldn’t love her like normal people were allowed to love. Hated, hated, _hated_. 

And only because the opposite was too painful. If she hated him, she could let him go. 

But she didn’t hate him. She loved him as much as one person could love another. They’d come into the world together, inexorably tied to one another for the full span of their lives. Even in death, she felt the strength of that bond. The longer he was dead from the world, the fiercer she held on, clutching the scroll in place of flesh, crumpling the already abused paper. 

_Say a quick goodbye and get over it as quickly as possible… I’m dead, Touka. You’re alive._

She took a deep breath, opened her mouth. The words wouldn’t come. 

The tears did. At long last, the tears broke over like a wave. She grieved for him with the power of all the pent up grief that should have been dished over the years. She didn’t sob or howl with mourning, as some women did. Her tears were as silent as the grave. They weren’t for display. They were for him. He couldn’t hear them anyway. 

When she’d cried herself raw, still staring into nothing, she took the breath and said the words. “Goodbye, Tobirama.” It was a curious sound, to have finally cracked the silence. She tested the sound. Then she felt the silence. It didn’t work quite as it had before, with her mother, so she tried again, a broken little thing trying to figure out the indescribable. “Goodbye, Tobirama. Goodbye, shishou. Goodbye. Goodbye. Good—“ She stopped. It was a failed experiment. 

She squeezed the scroll tighter. “I love you.”

It was a push. In the other direction, and not toward the living. But it was movement, so she embraced it. 

“I love you.” She edged closer to a conclusion.

“I love you.” Closer still. 

 _I love you._ She shut her eyes. 

Whatever the scroll said, she’d never know. Whatever was written there wasn’t important. She’d see him again soon, and he could tell her his damned self. She smiled, deliriously remembering his words to her as she fell asleep one last time. 

_Forever and ever._

And never.


End file.
